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In My Tent
by David HillI aim a flashlight beam
and read of Billy Pilgrim,
who, like me
has become unstuck in time.
The night is orchestrated:
crickets are piccolos
played between grass blades
beneath the ratchet of locusts
hung to the underside of leaves.
I palm hairspray plumage
sprung in a thin, poor pompadour.
My hair smells of smoke
my breath of the stew,
and the nylon sleeping bag
is cool against my skin.
I think of how much I like coffee,
aromatic steam puffs from the spout,
the way brown ran down the tin pot
then dripped in the evening fire,
Pt-sisssÂ…Pt-sisssÂ…
Something crawls up my arm,
prickles with six fine legs
sending a spinal shiver,
but like the beetle, I am unafraid.
I unzip the flap and toss him
to the night.
I am fooled by these woods,
our world seems unpopulated
by people.
Looking up
through the mesh
I see stars
as big as the sky
the smallest firefly.
I think about the fire bombing
of Dresden,
spiral downwards
eternal nothingness
my deepest, darkest.
But then I rise to think about
the miracle of the trout
suspended in clear water
and how I plan to fool him
with tiny feathered hooks
in the morning. 10/12/2005 Author's Note: Bug in a rug.
Posted on 10/12/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gregory O'Neill on 10/12/05 at 06:42 PM Great David. Those places in nature always sharpened my eyesight, cleared my head and straightened my thoughts. I miss my backpacking, miles and miles into the Olympic Mts. Thanks for the reminder. Very vivid. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 09/17/06 at 02:47 PM This poem is one of the reasons I read! You have taken me back to my childhood, reminded me of sounds, smells, skin sensations, and given me sweet thoughts of my father and brother fishing together in the early morning. Thank you! |
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